


Bird of Prey

by 4mation



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, History of a Hawke, Snarky Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5225702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4mation/pseuds/4mation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The bird of paradise alights only upon the hand that does not grasp."<br/>A chronicle which follows Marian Hawke from birth till death, from rise to fall, from fugitive to Champion. Vignettes of her life which defined how one bird left the nest and learnt how to fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hatchling

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by http://championsandheroes.smackjeeves.com/comics/1613746/brb-breather/. The image of chibi Hawkes made me want to write about their childhood. After that it sort of spiralled out of control.  
> Most of the information was taken from the Dragon Age Wiki, though some (such as the timeline for Malcolm Hawke’s co-operation with the Grey Wardens) has little to no information, so I made an educated guess. If there are any inconsistencies, consider it to be artistic license.   
> Hope you enjoy.  
> Warnings: Contains spoilers for Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age II and Dragon Age: Inquisition (including DLC for all three).

_9:08 Dragon_

Her name is Marian, and she is four hours old.

She was brought kicking and screaming into this world, her cries mingling with that of her mother’s as she makes that final push. The midwife, Arla, is preoccupied with wiping the blood and slime off the newborn baby, giving Malcolm the chance to reach over and surreptitiously bathe Leandra with a burst of healing magic. Then, he strides to Arla’s side and gently pries the baby from her arms.

She is warm and wriggling feebly (good, good, motor skills are good), and a quick glance downwards confirms her gender. Any question of her health is dispelled, however, by the wailing. Her mighty cries are so hearty that Malcolm is sure that Magisters in Tevinter can hear her. Leandra is breathing heavily, but the healing magic helped, and now she’s propping herself up to get a better look. Malcolm gently moves back to his wife’s side and carefully places the baby in Leandra’s arms, and she just _holds_ her, and, Maker, they’re all so _relieved_. The first is hard, so hard, and it would have been crushing if…

But thank the Maker, they don’t need to concern themselves with that. And Arla’s coming over with blankets for swaddling, and she comments that it’s usually an ill omen for a baby to be bawling so loudly, comments that the Chasind believe a baby crying at birth is a sign of a hard life ahead, but Malcolm has no time for superstitions and prophecies. He has a daughter, and he has his wife, and they are both hale and hearty, and the world has never looked brighter.

Her name is Marian, and she has just been born. 


	2. Gemini

_9:11 Dragon_

Their names are Bethany and Carver, and she doesn’t know how to be an older sister.

Mommy’s in the kitchen, mashing up some turnips. Daddy’s down working at the docks, helping load crates onto the big war ships that will send the Orlesians back home if they try anything. Everyone looks proud and scared whenever they talk about it, though, even if they won’t tell Marian anything about it. So, she shrugs, leaves the grown-ups to their business, and clambers on top of the box she sneaked from her bedroom to peer over the top of the cot.

They’re both so little, Marian thinks. Daddy says that they’re twins, which Next-Door Nora says means they’re going to be the same. Marian doesn’t think they’re really similar at all. First off, Bethany’s a girl and Carver’s a boy. Second, Bethany always looks cheerful and at peace, while Carver only looks happy when he’s sleeping.

They’re both sleeping right now, because that’s what babies do, they sleep and eat and don’t want to play, even when Marian asks nicely. Curious, Marian reaches into the cot and pokes Bethany, just a bit, prodding her in the belly. Bethany lets out this little coo, before mumbling herself back to whatever dreams babies have.

Delighted by this revelation, Marian pokes Carver, too, but maybe she poked too hard in excitement, or maybe Carver’s sensitive, because he starts crying, and now Mommy’s running to see what the fuss is, and she pulls Marian away from the cot and does that finger-wagging thing she does whenever Marian does something wrong, and Marian can’t help but think how _unfair_ it all is, because she didn’t deserve this, Carver’s just a big baby, she just wanted to play, and now she’s supposed to go sit outside and think about what she’s done. So Marian huffs and plops down on the rug in the living room, broodily nudging her mabari plush with her toe.

Her sister’s name is Bethany, and she’s a sweetheart, and Carver’s a sulky no-fun poophead.

 


	3. South for the Summer

 

_9:20 Dragon_

Her name is Mari, and she’s bored out of her mind.

She’s sitting in the back of a wagon, trying to find a comfortable position on top of the sack of dried beans. It’s a futile mission; every movement just jabs her in a different spot with a hard morsel, and at this point Mari’s considering just throwing the stupid thing out the wagon completely. Coupled with the insufferable midday heat, and Carver constantly asking why they had to leave when all his friends were still in Amaranthine, and, well, Mari just might jump out and run all the way to Lothering, if it would make this trip go faster.

Mari throws some hair over her shoulder, irritated again by the stray ends which kept sticking to her sweat-stained cheek. It seems kind of unfair that while she’s stuck on a sack of beans spitting out loose ends, Bethany is sitting on a rolled-up rug, quite serenely reading one of the books Dad bought from a passing merchant. Mari checks the cover, and, yup, it’s another one about Andraste. Mari never saw the appeal of the Chantry herself (weekend sermons at the Chant were _so_ boring), but ever since her magic happened, Bethany’s become obsessed. She could probably recite the entire Chant from memory at this point, while all Mari can remember is something about fire and light and the Maker. If something in the Chant granted immunity to heatstroke and painless wagon trips, as Bethany’s perfect posture seemed to imply, well then, Mari was just about ready to sign up as a lay sister.

If she did, though, Carver would probably try become Revered Mother. Mari glances over at her other sibling, who had demanded to sit up front with Mom but had been relegated to a crate of carrots near the front. As always, he’s somehow managed to be the most miserable person on the road, grouchily hunched over a dagger he’s trying to sharpen with a whetstone. Even though he’s only nine, and he’s about as graceful as a drunken druffalo, Carver insisted he get a dagger as well after Mari received one for her birthday. Malcolm acquiesced and so Carver and Mari both learnt knifeplay from their father. Secretly, though, Mari didn’t think Carver had the aptitude. Still, she doesn’t want to discourage her baby brother, so she teases and smirks and laughs, because Carver responds to her more when he thinks it’s a competition. Give him a taste of sympathy and you’re more likely to get your hand bitten off. Challenge, though, that’s what whets Carver’s appetite.

So that’s why, instead of tying up her hair and going over to show Carver how to angle the whetstone so that it doesn’t snap the blade in half, Mari leans backwards so that she can poke Bethany with her toe. Bethany looks up, momentarily startled at being pulled out of the world of the Maker and heroics and burning women. Mari mouths “watch this” at Bethany, and Bethany does that thing where she looks both anxious and eager.

Mari reaches into her makeshift seat and pulls out a bean. She tosses it in the air, getting a feel for its weight, before tossing it in Carver’s direction with sideways sweep of her hand. Bethany makes a little squeak of protest and excitement.

The bean nails Carver between his eyes, right in the furrows of his eternal frown. Startled, he drops the whetstone, but has enough presence of mind to keep a grip on the dagger. He looks up, and when he sees Mari roaring with laughter and Bethany desperately hiding her giggles behind her book, he gets to his feet and jumps at his sister. And then they’re rolling around on the wagon’s floor, and Marian (of course) pins Carver and perches on his chest while he desperately wriggles beneath her. And then Carver’s shouting “Get off me, Mari!” and Bethany’s half-heartedly telling Mari to leave her twin alone, and now Mom’s turning around to see what the commotion is. Mari waits for Mom to tell her off twice before she finally swings herself off of Carver, who huffs, more embarrassed at losing again than actually angry at Mari provoking him. As everyone settles back into their normal spots, Mari catches Bethany’s eye and winks. When Carver looks up at them, she blows him a kiss. Bethany giggles and Carver grumbles and Mari smirks.

Her name is Mari, and the long trip to Lothering’s gotten a little bit more bearable. 


	4. Claws

 

_9:22 Dragon_

Her name is Marian, and she’s a troublemaker.

Their attendance for weekend Chantry services is erratic. Father explained it to them, when they first arrived at Lothering. Go every week, and then you become part of a community, and then next thing you know it’ll be family visits and neighbourly check-ups and surprise parties, the kinds of things apostates generally want to avoid. But don’t go at all and then people will begin to ask questions about that secluded, secretive family. So, stagger your attendance, and then people will dismiss you as lazy or inconsistent, the type of person who gets a raised eyebrow and weary headshakes from polite company and nothing more.

Unfortunately, Chantry services are _boring_. Worse, Bethany always shushes Marian whenever she tries to engage in whisper-conversation while the Revered Mother leads the Chant, while Carver bounces around like a puppy trying to get a Templar to show him their sword. Mother, of course, is a perfectly respectable lady who knows the Chant and sings along perfectly, while Father hums along, completely at ease. Not even the pretty sister was enough to stave off the mindless droning building up in Marian’s brain.

So, when Maurevar decided to sneak out from under the pew and go in search of snacks, it was hardly Marian’s fault that she found him sniffing around in Allison’s skirts, causing her to shriek and leap a good foot in the air. But apparently, because she was laughing and it was her dog, it was her plan all along, and then she had to leave the Chantry clutching a squirming, ten-pound Mabari or risk offending the good townsfolk.

So, on the plus side, Marian is free of the Chantry. On the downside, she is sure to get an earful from Mother later, and now her only company is a dejected Mabari pup and a blinking cow. Sterling companions for conversation, truly.

Thus, Marian finds herself practicing her knifework, balancing carefully on the stones sticking defiantly out of the river running through the village. While Carver had since “outgrown” the dagger when he came into possession of a two-handed greatsword, and Bethany was far more comfortable with the staff shaped by Father, Marian had found something calmingly appealing in her daggers. Smoothly leaping from stone to stone, blades flashing in the morning light, Marian loses herself to the deadly dance, enjoying the smooth transition as she flowed every slash into the next, a never-ending chain of blows that whistled through the air, smooth and streaming like the water just beneath her feet. Marian lashes at an imaginary opponent, then charges forwards, feet skimming over the water’s surface as she leapt from rock to rock. She imagines shoulder-charging an enemy to knock them down, then shifts her momentum into a flip. She lands on a rock and slips just for a moment as her boot slides across the water-slicked surface. But she twists with the slip, shifting the momentum into a spinning cartwheel. She slashes at her imaginary foe beneath her, lands on the heel of her right foot, shifts her stance, then springs forward, driving both daggers down into her opponent. Water splashes around her at the impact, and Marian winces as the tip of her left dagger scraped across a rock. Damn. She’ll have to check that blade later, make sure it hasn’t been chipped.

Her thoughts are broken by the sound of gentle clapping.

Surprised, Marian whips around, unconsciously bringing her daggers to the ready. The pretty Chantry sister raises her hands defensively, the universal sign for “I’m unarmed please don’t stab me”. Her serene smile, however, is much calmer than one would expect from a Chantry sister with a knife pointed at her nose.

Embarrassed, Marian lowers her daggers.

“Apologies,” she says. She checks her daggers, making sure that there isn’t any serious damage, before sheathing them with an exaggerated twirl to cover up her embarrassment. Playing cool generally works better than humble head-dipping in her experience. She hops casually off the rocks onto the bank, smoothing back her hair in a (hopefully) suave manner.

“It is no worry,” the sister replies, her accent rich with the flowery lilt of Orlais. Marian cocks her head in surprise. The sister smiles knowingly at that. “I was merely on my way to check on the rosebushes when I noticed you at your practice. You’re very good.”

“Ah, thank you,” Marian says, somewhat awkwardly. She curses inwardly at that. She’s supposed to be smooth and suave. She doesn’t _do_ awkward stuttering. She’s supposed to leave pretty girls and handsome boys with their mouths hanging at her stunning charisma and beauty. But something about this particular woman leaves her at a loss. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. “I didn’t even know the Chantry had a rosebush.” Marian manages lamely. _“I imagine that this is what it feels like to be Carver.”_

The sister laughs at that. “It is unlikely you would. Most others in the Chantry have abandoned it. The bush has not bloomed for many years now, and thus there are but a select few who tend to it. Still, if there is a chance of beauty, then we should do our best to coax it to life, no?”

Something about her smile is off-putting for Marian. It’s far more knowing and sly than the usual Maker-loving Chantry sisters.

“This is one of those metaphor things, isn’t it?” Marian ventures cautiously. “Where you’re saying one thing but actually talking about something else?”

The sister smirks at that. “Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

Marian considers it. She glances back towards the river behind her.

“You’re saying that even if other people look at me and see a useless bush, I should keep working at it, staying true to myself. I shouldn’t let people tell me what to do. I should grow into myself, and work at myself. And then… I’ll be a flower?” Marian scratches at the back of her neck. “Ok, maybe I lost that metaphor towards the end there.”

The sister laughs. She has a pretty laugh. Charming, really. “I have seen many men and women try hard to be something they are not, and many others who could be someone but gave up on themselves. I have met women who wanted to be clever and beautiful, and men who wanted to be strong and handsome, but all tried too hard and fell too fast.”

“Tell me about it,” Marian mutteres, thinking about Carver dropping daggers everywhere.

“But there are those who are more than they appear, those dismissed by others. Those hidden in plain sight, growing something wonderful inside. I think that you are that kind of hidden person.”

“So I’m a flower waiting to spring into life like an elven maiden?” Marian jokes.

The sister laughs again. “Do not dismiss so easily. Even the most beautiful rose can have thorns.”

“And what kind of person are you?” Marian asks. “You’re clearly more knowledgeable than an ordinary Chantry sister.”

“Am I? Have you met so many sisters to be able to tell them all apart?” the not-sister counters.

“I know that most Chantry sisters would be telling me to put down the knives and pick up a pitchfork. Autumn is upon us and the birds are starting to fly, every hand is needed to man the fields, bring in the crops, prepare for winter, blah blah blah. Most sisters wouldn’t be talking about roses and thorns.”

“You are a quick learner with a keen eye,” the not-sister compliments with a smile. She brushes a lock of hair out of her face, and Marian is fascinated at how gracefully she manages the action. Definitely a trick to learn for later. “Definitely more than just a fanciful flower with kitchen knives.”

“I’ve been told I have the aptitude for the clever tricks,” Marian replies, enjoying this verbal back-and-forth. It’s like when she tests blades against her father, the delicate dance, darting and baiting and weaving, vying for the superior position. “And my keen eye tells me that you’re much more than a Chantry sister. Any particular reason an Orelsian finds herself in Lothering? A lost ambassador? A spy with terrible sense of direction? A sister with a dark and mysterious past?”

“Goodness, you are a dramatic one,” the Orlesian says with a chuckle. “I am merely here to check in on a friend. She has not been in touch for so very long, and I wanted to make sure that she was faring well.”

“Sister Leliana, I presume, judging by the accent. Why all the dressing-up and cryptic advice? Don’t get me wrong, I love a pretty woman in Chantry robes as much as the next blasphemer, but still seems awfully complicated.”

“We were very complicated friends,” the not-sister allows, brushing light brown braids out of her eyes. “Life is complicated, as you will find, pretty thing. It is best to let nothing surprise you. Accept that anything is possible, and you’ll find that nothing will catch you off-guard ever again.”

“Seems like the advice for the paranoid,” Marian counters. “Why lie in wait for threats when you could have opportunities?”

“Those are often the same,” she replies. “Dragons were thought extinct, and yet here they are once more. It would not be such a surprise if we had prepared for this eventuality. Few things lie dormant for long, I’ve found.”

“The Maker seems to be doing a good job of it,” Marian quips, crossing her arms and leaning back in that cocky position Bethany always laughs at. “Personally, I’d love to have a dragon.”

“You are truly a special one, aren’t you?” the Orlesian says with a light chuckle, shaking her head. “But now it seems service is over, and you have a family with whom to reunite. Before I take my leave, consider what I’ve said. Always be prepared, pretty thing. Meet the world with smiles and roses… but keep your thorns ready at your sides.”

“Might I have a name, to pair with such lovely advice and lovelier face?” Marian asks, quickly, as the townsfolk started bustling out of the Chantry. She sees her father looking around for her, and waves in his direction, and then instantly regrets it when she sees her mother look over with a frown.

The not-sister chuckles at that as she backs away, threatening to be swallowed up by the crowd.

“Names mean little, pretty thing. In this world, one can choose whatever name one wants. It is a title, a mask, a means to hide yourself. Keep your name to yourself, and you can keep you to yourself. Give only what you are prepared to lose.”

And with that, she’s gone, lost in the swarm of Chantry robes and Templar armour. Marian lets out a low whistle, wondering if she’d ever learn how to vanish like that. She’ll have to ask Father. Maybe Mother could help provide some ingredients for a potion.

Speak of the devil…

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, young lady,” Mother says in that long-suffering tone which Marian has learnt to associate with herself. “Bringing your dog to the Chantry. We told you it was a bad idea.”

“Maurevar’s _our_ dog, Mother. He’s part of the family. If you’re leaving him behind, you might as well leave me behind as well. Actually, can we make that the arrangement from now on?”

“Always with the jests,” Mother sighs, shaking her head. “One of these days, you’ll find yourself in a situation where your witty tongue can’t find a quip, and I swear that I’ll be there just to say ‘I told you so’.”

“Will it be the day sweet Bethany finally says a bad word?” Marian asks, hooking an arm around her sister’s waist, prompting giggling from the younger girl. “The day Bethany starts contributing to the swear jar will be the day I’m completely lost for words, I swear it.”

“Of course,” Marian adds, grabbing Carver and linking arms with him as well to his groan of displeasure. “The day when I will be well and truly stunned will be when our Carver gets married. A woman who willingly binds herself to him for life, now that’ll be a real shocker, won’t it?”

“Shove off, Marian,” Carver complains, trying to untangle his arm from his sister’s, while Bethany giggles at her siblings’ antics.

“This is your fault,” Mother says in an exaggerated tone of anguish. “‘Let’s raise them with manners,’ I said. ‘We can teach them to be proper ladies and gentleman’. ‘Ridiculous’, you said. ‘I grew up without parental control, and look how well I turned out’. Now we’re both paying for it.”

“I stand by what I said,” Father says evenly. “I personally think that our children will grow into marvellous, respected members of society, the envy of every royal court in Thedas. Children for generations will be named after Marian the Clever, Carver the Strong, and Bethany the Beautiful.”

“Of course they get to be smart and pretty,” Carver complains. “Meanwhile, I get the title that makes me sound like an ox.”

“Oh, do cheer up, brother,” Bethany chides, bumping hips with Marian so that she’d nudge Carver in turn.

“Yes, Carver, cheer up” Marian adds, nudging Carver again of her own accord. “Otherwise we might have to make some other names for you. ‘Carver the Complainer’? ‘Carver the Dour’? ‘Carver Frowny-Face’? Really, the possibilities are endless.”

“And what about you, sister? What’ll they call you? ‘Marian the Manic’? ‘Marian the Mouth’? ‘Marian the Silly’?”

“I don’t care what people call me,” Marian says airily, swinging their linked arms energetically, be it willingly (Bethany) or unwillingly (Carver). “I’ve decided that names have no meaning to my life. I’ll make my own name, and then it won’t matter what people refer to me by, because I’ll know what name is really mine.”

“Surprising piece of wisdom there, Marian,” Father compliments. Marian grins, Mother smiles while shaking her head, Bethany looks at her with those adoring eyes, and Carver grumbles while shooting angry looks at the village toughs eyeing his sisters.

Her name is Marian, and she is the rose with thorns. 


End file.
